


I can resist anything except temptation

by Roxie Ann (pluvial_poetry)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Cock-Blocking, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-29
Updated: 2010-08-29
Packaged: 2017-10-11 08:07:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/110240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pluvial_poetry/pseuds/Roxie%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Arthur had doubts and one time he didn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I can resist anything except temptation

**Author's Note:**

> Edited as of 12/8. Now with less spelling/grammar errors. I hope. Also, I tweaked and extended the final sex scene. You're welcome.

1.

Arthur was a believer in plans, well-timed and well-executed. Eames was a believer in whatever suited him best at the moment. Which is why Arthur was still giving him instructions on how to impress their latest mark and what kind of time frame the mark would have to be distracted for, even as Eames was folding up the cuff of his shirt, needle in hand. Eames waved off the last of Arthur's words, as he settled into his seat next to their latest mark, Adrian Zohn's, hotel bed.

"It's not my first time working a pole, gentlemen." Eames smiled and closed his eyes. "You'd better take your seats. Show's about to begin."

*

In the dream, the club that Ariadne had designed for Zohn was slightly more, for a lack of a better word, feminine than Arthur would have expected. The walls were lit by fluorescent pink bulbs, the couches were deep and pillowed. Curtains that shielded the private rooms billowed softly from some unseen wind source.

But the layout was exactly what Arthur's specifications had called for. The bar in a central location, where Cobb and Arthur would sit until the mark was sufficiently distracted. And the stage at the front of the room, where Eames would provide the distraction.

Arthur's research had denoted the mark's taste for blondes with big breasts, which Arthur had also noted was pedestrian and obvious. Eames apparently hadn't been in the mood for either of those things.

Even when the plan was flawless, Arthur knew to allow for surprises. _She_ was a surprise. And despite the brown hair and dark eyes, the forge was working, Arthur would give Eames his due. Even the bartender projection didn't bat an eyelash as Arthur sat down at the bar. Every eye was on the stage.

She was all curves. Her body and the way she moved. Rolling her hips, arching her back. She hooked a leg around the pole and bent over backwards. The tiny bit of white lace that held her breasts was not equipped for the job. As it rode up, the men leaned forward in hope. But it was Arthur that she was watching.

If Arthur could move he would have loosened his tie.

The dance went on for another 2 and 1/2 minutes. Club music and blood were pounding in Arthur's head until he couldn't tell which was which. There was a standing ovation when Eames left the stage, collecting applause and tips. Her eyes met Arthur’s as she took a deep curtsy. Arthur was supposed to meet her in the backroom, stay out of sight while Cobb found out the name and location of Zohn's partner. But Arthur stayed where he was. It seemed safer with the projections than in the back corner of a stranger's subconscious with Eames. Cobb had already lifted Zohn's briefcase and would be extracting the information soon. Arthur just had to wait for the dream to be over.

He would have just waited for the dream to end. Except she was standing next to him suddenly, grabbing his hand. Arthur hadn't expected that. Which halfway explained why he let her pull him off of the bar stool and behind the curtain of a private dance room.

She smiled when they were alone, full of ~~himself~~ _herself_ and too sure. She kept smiling as she slid out of her little bra and stepped out of her panties. As she opened her arms and pulled Arthur in.

He shouldn't be kissing her. The job was almost over. It wasn't part of the plan, it wasn't necessary. But he kissed her like it was. His hands roamed all over her, testing. Arthur’s fingers caught on the tangles in her hair as he ran them through it. Her nipples hardened when he pinched them, she moaned when he grabbed her hips and rutted against her. Her head fell back and she gasped for air when he slid a finger inside of her. She was wet and so soft. Her thighs shook, and he pressed her back against the wall to keep her steady. His thumb was rubbing over her clit now, she clutched at his back, still gasping. And when she came, she said his name on a harsh little growl that sounded nothing like _her_ and everything like Eames.

It cleared Arthur‘s head. He should have been thinking. He had to think. This wasn't part of the plan. He took a step back. He thought that maybe ~~she~~ Eames, looked disappointed.

Then there was the kick and he was gone.

 

2.

No matter what Eames said or insinuated previously, Arthur wasn't asexual or a prude. He didn't have many hang ups about sex. But he kept it separate from business. Or he had. And he would again.

It would be easier if Eames wasn't smiling at him now, like Arthur was a joke that he had just figured out the punchline to.

Arthur was trying to get through a briefing about the next mark, Adrian Zohn's partner. He put up a picture of Natalia Vassiliadis, museum curator, on their white board. Eames whistled admiringly.

"Something about a solid little brunette, right Arthur?" Eames's look said that butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. Arthur's look said that if they were in a dream, he would have a gun in his hand.

*

The rest of the team drifted away after Arthur finished. But Eames stayed sprawled in his chair, watching Arthur. Cocky and knowing.

"Eames. Do we need to have a conversation?" Arthur folded his arms across his chest, his stance wide and defensive.

"Several, most likely. How much time would you like to devote to your legion of issues, repression obviously being the most prevalent?"

"I'm not repressed, Mr. Eames." Arthur shrugged dismissively. If it was anyone else, the no nonsense tone of voice would have effectively ended the conversation. But Eames would only see it as a challenge.

Eames moved closer, into Arthur's space and his laugh was harsh and disbelieving. "Right. Except that you'd never fuck me. But if I were a woman, in a dream, well then, suddenly it's a new game."

"You never asked me to fuck you before." If Arthur knew that he was issuing another challenge, he didn't let it show. He met Eames's eyes, simple and direct.

"Then I'm asking now."

But he didn't ask. He just took, wrapping a hand around the back of Arthur's neck, and suddenly they were pressed together. Eames's tongue, always slick and too clever, finding its way to Arthur's, tasting, exploring. Arthur's fingers clenched around Eames's biceps hard enough to leave bruises. He could feel Eames's heart beat slamming against his rib cage, and still they weren't close enough. He wanted to get his hands, his mouth, on Eames's shoulders, his stomach, his hip bones... he just wanted. Mindless and consuming.

A door slammed shut, loud and near. Arthur shoved away reflexively, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. There was no quick fix for the hint of whisker burn on his face or the erection straining against the fabric of his pants. But he pulled himself together as neatly as he could, so he could focus as Ariadne burst in to describe the strange loop of hallways inside of the museum, that would always bring the projections back to the front entry way if they tried to make their way through the maze. Eames still stood in Arthur's space, heat and frustration radiating from him.

In the back of his mind, Arthur acknowledged that plans changed. Man or woman, whatever happened with Eames happened because he didn't let Arthur stop to think. Didn't let Arthur reason his way out of it. Because that was who Eames was.

Then Arthur acknowledged that it was only a matter of time before he ran out of reasons to stop all together.

 

3.

Arthur hated to be rushed. He needed time to prepare, set up for all contingencies. Whether it was in business or ... regarding something else. So he was avoiding Eames, or as near to it as possible considering that they were working a job together.

They were in a dream now. And once the dream was over they could go their separate ways. Arthur thought that might be for the best. He wouldn't be rushed.

*

They created a museum for Natalia Vassiliadis, and filled it. Ariadne's attention to detail in the dreamscape was impressive. Arthur pressed a hand to an early Rembrandt, and felt brushstrokes under the pads of his fingers. He pulled it off of the wall, admiring the depth and weight of the imagination. Then he brought his knee up and cracked the painting in half over it.

Arthur could hear Eames's laughing in the next room, Pottery and Sculpture, over the crash of ceramics and clay being smashed on the ground.

Across the room, being kept quiet by Cobb, Natalia sobbed.

Arthur systematically worked his way down the west wall, destroying paintings. He was coming to what would amount to a very important Picasso, a fact which Ms. Vassiliadis would be very well aware of.

Cobb took his hand away from her mouth. "Please. What do you want?" She asked in French, tears choking her.

Cobb yanked her off of the floor and into her office. He should be able to extract the location of the provenance papers from her without much resistance now.

The museum was dark and concave, all glass and marble, looming over Arthur. It was eerily silent beyond the footsteps behind him. He didn't turn around. He knew it was Eames. "We're almost finished here."

"Can't imagine that's true, Arthur." Eames slid a hand under Arthur's sweater, palm pressing against his stomach. He knew Eames was expecting resistance, probably violence. Perversely, Arthur stood his ground.

"I hear music. How long do we have?" Eames asked, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of Arthur's pants. Arthur let out a breath that he hadn't realized that he'd been holding.

"Not long." The job was over, they would go their separate ways. They didn't have long.

Suddenly Arthur was the one rushing. He turned and slanted his mouth over Eames's, running his hands down that broad back to cup his ass. There was barely a pause before Eames was responding.

The music was a whisper, half-forgotten. Eames had a hold of Arthur's hips, and he was holding on too hard, like he couldn't help himself. He strung kisses down the column of Arthur's neck, biting at the base of his throat, then back up again, memorizing Arthur's face with his mouth. It all felt a little too desperate, with him doing everything at once, like he might never have another chance.

That wasn't what Arthur wanted. He hadn't had Eames naked yet, hadn't had him spread out in front of him, all muscle and tattoos, where Arthur could take his time. That was what Arthur wanted.

He just needed more time.

The music ended.

 

4.

They went into the first bar that they had come across and stayed until it closed for the night. They would catch flights out of Athens tomorrow. Tonight a job well done had them indulging more than they normally would, which for Arthur meant indulging _at all_. He should go back to the warehouse, break down their workspace. Cobb would be there now. Better to finish things now.

But then Eames smirked at him, and Arthur glared back. And heading back to the warehouse suddenly felt like a defeat. He told himself that he would only stay for one drink.

None of them were fluent in Greek, but Eames knew enough to order drinks and potentially prostitutes depending on how the night went. Eames held Arthur's gaze and smiled when he said that. Arthur's hand went automatically to the die in his pocket. One drink.

*

Yusuf headed out first, weaving back to the hotel while mumbling chemical equations to himself. That left Ariadne, Eames, and Arthur with their third bottle of ouzo.

Ariadne tried to keep up with Eames, matching him drink for drink. By the time that they finished their last bottle, she had collapsed in on herself, her chin resting on her chest. Arthur hadn't kept track of how much he had been drinking. Enough that he no longer felt tense or annoyed, and the arm that Eames had draped over the back of his chair didn't concern him.

The bartenders turned out the lights over the bar, the international signal for "get the fuck out".

Arthur and Eames stood, Arthur pulling out a few bills to lay down on the table. They both looked at Ariadne, who was on the verge of sliding under the table, and then looked at each other.

"Not it." Arthur said distinctly.

Eames laughed, raspy with too much alcohol, and grabbed Ariadne under her armpits, helping her up. When she couldn't stand on her own he hauled her over his shoulder, tactfully smoothing her skirt down where it had hiked up. It was unexpectedly thoughtful. Arthur didn't know what to make of it. So he filed it away, like he did with all things that he couldn't resolve immediately, to be considered later.

“You both drank as much as I did. Why am I the one being carried?” Ariadne asked, her voice muffled by Eames's back as they slowly headed down the street to their hotel.

“Can’t say that I’d mind being carried. Arthur?” Eames quirked an eyebrow at Arthur expectantly.

Arthur shook his head and kept his voice firm. “No.”

At the hotel they set Ariadne down in her room and waited til she locked the door behind them before they headed down the hall. Eames laughed when Arthur stumbled, grabbed him around the waist to keep him upright. "Floor's moving." Arthur muttered in his own defense. He didn't move out of Eames's grasp. Eames didn't let him go.

He followed Arthur to his room, and then inside of it.

He didn't bother with subtlety. Arthur couldn't blame him, if you counted all the years they'd known each other as foreplay. It was clear now that Eames had been waiting for an opening. He had one. He was making the most of it.

They were kissing. Eames rucked up Arthur's shirt, attacking the buttons as he backed Arthur across the room. The back of Arthur's knees hit the bed and he tumbled over, taking Eames with him. It was good, the solid weight of Eames on top of him, hands parting his shirt to get at skin. Eames sat up, and he was smiling, a little dazed and a lot smug. Arthur would have said something hoping to piss him off, but then one of Eames's hands was on his dick. Tracing the shape of it through his pants. Speech didn't seem possible anymore. Eames unbuckled Arthur's belt, and it felt ceremonious, lifting his hips to let it slide through the belt loops, the clatter it made when it hit the ground.

It ended less ceremoniously.

When his cell phone rang, Arthur reached to answer it automatically. "Yeah?"

He slapped at Eames's hands as they maneuvered to unbutton his pants, disentangling himself and sitting up.

"Fiero wants a meeting. He needs us in Lisbon tomorrow." Cobb sounded frustrated. He was heading home once all the loose ends of this job were tied up. It was taking longer than anyone would have hoped, Arthur especially.

"I'll take care of it." He closed his phone with a snap, bending over to retrieve his belt. "I have to go. Business to take care of." He was careful not to let his gaze linger on the sprawl of Eames's limbs across the bed. He was drunk, and being careless. He should have known better.

"Five more minutes and it won't seem so important, darling, I promise you that." Eames reached for him, but Arthur stood up and out of range.

"I'm leaving. Now." He had put himself back together quickly, smoothing his hair back as best he could.

And then he left, before he let Eames stop him.

 

5.

Arthur was still a little drunk, sitting in the airport bar, a newspaper folded in front of him. Cobb had stepped out to speak to the children. They had thirty minutes before their flight.

He saw Eames the moment he stepped into the bar; too big, too loud, too bright for 5 a.m.

Eames spotted Arthur immediately, and held up his hands, a gesture for peace. "Turns out I needed an earlier flight as well."

Arthur didn't believe him. He half-suspected that Eames had been orchestrating everything up until this moment, motivated by reasons as yet unknown. Their relationship had been strictly business for years, whatever flirtation or attraction there might have been on either side notwithstanding. For the situation to have devolved so quickly took initiative. Planning. He might have been impressed, if he hadn't been pissed at himself for being so blatantly outmaneuvered.

"Where are you headed?" He stood, reaching for his carry-on. He walked out into the terminal, knowing that Eames would follow. Eames didn't disappoint.

"Washington D.C. Few cities appreciate a good bit of espionage more." He was walking too close, his voice in Arthur's ear.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Heard you were avoiding the States until the heat from your last visit died down." He'd never needed to keep tabs on Eames. In their business, small and incestuous as it was, tales traveled. If there was trouble brewing somewhere, nine times out of ten, Eames would be involved and Arthur would hear about it.

Blithe, and smiling at a group of young women that passed by, Eames murmured, "Just a simple misunderstanding, Arthur. And the statute of limitations has run out."

They were almost to Arthur's gate, Cobb was standing there, his back to them. But Eames put a hand on Arthur's shoulder, exerting pressure, steering him toward a restroom. Arthur took note of the security guards posted nearby and didn't struggle, not in an airport. The last thing he needed was his name on a no-fly list.

"What do you want, Eames?" He asked, turning on Eames as he pushed him through the door.

"It hasn't changed." He took Arthur's chin in one hand. Eames's eyes are guarded, heavy-lidded. He pressed his lips, christ, those lips, to the corner of Arthur's mouth. Arthur thought of struggling again, and dismissed it again. He let Eames's mouth drag against his, soft and persuasive. He could have walked away from Eames, and would. As long as Eames wasn't touching him, kissing him. He lost track of time when they kissed. Five minutes might have been an hour. It wasn't real.

It was Eames who backed away this time, folding his arms across his chest. "Not to imply that I haven't been enjoying the dance, but sooner or later, Arthur, you will have to decide to deal with this. With me."

Arthur's back stiffened. He was being backed into a corner, and reflexively, he wanted to fight. "Maybe. But not here or now." He couldn't stop the thought that it wasn't the time or the place. And it disturbed him more than he wanted to admit that there might never be a time or place.

Eames laughed, but it was tired and forced. "No, of course not. I'll let you plan the details, Arthur. It's what you do best. You know how to find me." He called that over his shoulder as he left.

Arthur stood there in the restroom until his flight boarded.

Arthur preferred to deal with validity, certainty. Control. Somehow he'd let his focus on maintaining control turn into indecision and doubt. He'd been waiting to be sure. He could accept that he wanted Eames, but he hadn't been able to accept that he wouldn't know if he'd made the right decision until he made it. There was no control.

There was a decision that needed to be made. So he made one now.

Cobb had already taken his seat on the plane, and was deep in thought, by the time Arthur took his seat across the aisle.

Formulation, preparation, execution. These were the things that he did well.

And as the flight toward Lisbon progressed, Arthur made plans.

 

1.

The staff at the Ambassador were known for being discreet. That didn't mean that they weren't susceptible to bribes. The suite Arthur was in was impressive. Balconies with a view of the city, in-suite bar, jacuzzi tub.

It wasn't Arthur's suite. He'd been there for almost an hour, waiting in the dark.

Still, he tensed when the door's lock clicked, and reached for a gun at the small of his back that wasn't there. Then forced himself to relax as Eames entered the room and closed the door behind him.

Eames hid the initial shock at finding Arthur there fairly well. He slipped his hand in and out of his pocket faster than he blinked.

"Arthur." Eames must have been satisfied with his grip on reality, because he went to the bar and poured himself a drink. "I am impressed."

"That I managed to break in to your hotel room?" Arthur smiled slightly.

"That you're here at all. Finally ready, are we?" He made it a question, one that needed an answer.

"Not everyone's as adaptable as you are, Eames." It was the only excuse Arthur could offer. Eames nodded.

"Seems as though you've made a start." He emptied his glass and came around from behind the bar. "What happens next, Arthur?" He tipped his head quizzically, giving Arthur a wide berth. Letting Arthur think about it.

Arthur smiled again, fully this time. "Surprise me."

Eames licked his lips, then laughed. He took off his jacket, threw it over the back of the sofa. Then his shirt, his pants, his boxers. Thrown in a pile on the floor. He stood in the middle of the room, naked and aroused.

Arthur went to him.

He tripped over his own feet as they made their way into the bedroom because he wouldn't let go of Eames long enough to look where he was going. Eames grunted as they managed to slam his shoulder into the door frame on their way through it, but he didn't let it slow him down. He unbuttoned Arthur's clothes with alarming speed, and if Arthur could care about anything other than Eames's mouth and his body at this particular moment, he would care about how wrinkled his jacket was going to be in the morning.

He shoved Eames onto the bed. Eames let the mattress bounce him back up to continue helping Arthur out of his clothes. He pressed hot, wet kisses to Arthur's collarbone as he peeled the shirt off of him. It was nice, and any other time, Arthur would be more than glad to let Eames slowly undress him. But not this time, the first time. He pushed Eames back, because it was faster and neater to undress himself. With only a small murmur of protest, Eames let Arthur do his job, settling back on his elbows to watch Arthur kick off his shoes, shove his pants and boxers down to his ankles and step out of them. Eames was making appreciative noises now, as Arthur moved forward naked to straddle him.

The kissing was deeper now, open mouthed, tongues winding together. One of Arthur's hands was in Eames's hair, holding on, pressing him closer.  His other hand couldn't seem to decide what it wanted. It traced the curve of the tattoo on Eames's shoulder, it rubbed over one of Eames's nipples making him shiver. It moved down to circle around Eames's cock, and there, that was the place for it. Slowly jacking Eames off while he panted for breath against Arthur's mouth.

Eames rolled suddenly, pinning Arthur to the bed. His hips moved against Arthur's, and even the slight pressure has Arthur's eyes rolling back and his hands clutching at the bedsheets. Eames grinned down at him, and it was wicked and promising more than its fair share of sin. And his hips rolled again, grinding against Arthur, their cocks rubbing together. Arthur bent his knees, his feet flat against the mattress and pushed back. And it felt better than anything Arthur had ever imagined, and they'd barely even gotten started.

"Wait, wait, wait, wait, we need..." Eames was fumbling with the drawer at the bedside table, pulling lube and condoms out, presenting them to Arthur like a bouquet before making his choice.

"I've thought about this moment. More than once." Eames murmured, popping open the top of the bottle and slicking his fingers with lube. "Fucking you until you can't move, until the only thing you can say is my name."

Funny, because that was the only thing Arthur could think about as well. Then there were fingers inside him, teasing him, opening him up. And he lost thought completely. He could barely get the packaging on the condom open, he was shaking too hard.

Eames took over for him, rolling the latex on himself, giving his cock a coat of lube and a quick squeeze as Arthur lifted his hips, spread his legs. Eames's chest and face were flushed, his eyes bright as he paused, looking down at Arthur. And Arthur didn't know what to say, if he should say anything, if he should beg, because christ, he just wanted Eames inside of him. Eames leaned down before he could, kissed him sweetly as he settled on top of him, his thumbs gripping tightly into Arthur's hipbones, his cock pressing against Arthur's hole and then slowly sinking in. He gave Arthur a second to acclimate before he pulled back out and then slid in again, both of them gasping a little at the sensation, Eames bending forward so he could tuck his face into the curve of Arthur's neck. It only took a moment before Arthur could take a ragged breath in and relax, letting Eames go deeper, finally fully in him. Then Eames was thrusting, fucking Arthur in earnest now, slamming into him, the force of it knocking the top of Arthur's head against the headboard until he moved his forearms up against it to brace himself. The mattress was creaking, the headboard banging against the wall, and the two of them moaning and swearing, and christ, it was all so obscenely unashamed, because it was so good. Eames's cock was hitting that spot inside of him that made him see fucking stars, he was sweaty and shaking, and he wanted to come, he was fucking desperate to come.

Eames knew, of course Eames could tell, because he wrapped a hand around Arthur's cock. It took two pulls and a twist, his cock shoved deep inside Arthur. Arthur made a noise that didn't even sound human, and let his orgasm burn up and through him, the sparks blinding him.

Eames collapsed next to him, mouth open, gasping for air. Arthur was sticky with sweat, lube, and semen, but Eames had made good on his promise. He actually couldn't move.

So he fell asleep exactly as he was.

He woke up a few hours later, a blanket pulled over him, and Eames pressed tight against his side. Arthur found that he didn't mind.

He almost hadn't made it here. But now that he had, he knew that in the morning he'd let Eames talk him into sharing a shower and into spending the rest of the day in bed.

It wasn't much, but it was a plan.

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a quote from Oscar Wilde. And a paradox.


End file.
